


Keep quite still and wait

by dimtraces



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Force Shenanigans, Gen, Hallucinations, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 16:41:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18525502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimtraces/pseuds/dimtraces
Summary: Decades after his brother’s death, there is little else left for Maul to seek but revenge—against Sidious, Kenobi, the galaxy—and the power to exact it with. He’s found a rumor of one such weapon. He should have expected a trap.





	Keep quite still and wait

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: graphic violence, violence against the thing wearing your brother's face, sensory manipulation, mind-reading, discussion about whether someone's life is worth living.
> 
> This is slightly darker and bleaker than my usual. For an extensive summary of warnings and content including spoilers, go to the endnotes.

“Why are you trying to kill me?”

The voice is almost familiar this time, warm and steady pressed against the empty floor. The torso that expelled it heaves with exertion underneath Maul’s rheumatic knees, life-like, and the elbows resisted and splintered and gushed thick slime when he bent them, one after the other, until they twisted clean off. If he was looking down, he’d see more than stark yellow and black melding into the shadow of the lightless cave: skin textured with bruises, beginning to purple, and waxy old scars, all smeared unevenly with the blood dripping down from Maul’s smashed nose.

It’s getting better.

The first time, it was just a shape in the corner of his eye, warbling words beyond language, and Maul reacted on instinct. He did not recognize the pulp-ooze head left behind. The next was bathed in sourceless fire, all elongated limbs and gargantuan shadows against piled-scrap phantom walls, promises inaudible over the whispers in Maul’s ears. It was a slavering beast; a cocky challenger; a craven beggar. It was a crowd of near-familiar faces. They were easy to kill. Now, its mimicry evolves.

Maul’s fingers press gently against its head in the way they never did, two decades ago when there was still life inside. He braces for the tell-tale signs of counterattack, searching, gripping the horns he knows are long and high above the ears. He feels their chips and rhytidome ridges, their imperfections, and he closes his eyes. It takes effort to curl his lips into a smile.

A twist, and Savage’s neck breaks.

Maul curls up tight down beside the shell and gasps, “Isn’t that why you are here, brother?”

*

There is no rhythm to these fights: sometimes, the thing that is turning itself into Savage will come rushing close again just seconds after its last death, eyes blank and roaring. Sometimes, Maul is stalked for hours. No reprieve, no shelter—except for the solid rough wall against Maul’s back and the soft floor that nothing has broken through yet and this time, the tall corpse guarding its killer’s belly, propped up on its side with its back and the broken-neck face pointing towards Maul—no reprieve, no shelter, and no way out. No food. No water.

No way in.

No way back.

There must have been a threshold to this shadowed cave and he must have crossed it, somewhere on his way up to the Sith temple or during the hours traversing an old forest or even during his initial descent towards the planet; he must have made a wrong decision, somewhere on his path. He’s been searching for an artifact that was said to grant a vision of inescapable power. As rumors of ancient Sith weapons go, the description was so vague as to be risible, but Maul has gone further for less. After all, his vengeance is not on a timer. Lord Sidious is ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal, where he will stay. Maul finally has information on Kenobi’s hiding spot on Tatooine, the place he doesn’t seem to have left for a decade. Maul might as well chase the weapon first, he’d decided, all the better to murder Kenobi with it. There is no rush. The future stretches on, straight ahead, forever. He has nothing but time. And, hopefully, soon: power. And, in the immediate: this blasted, pathetic trap.

The dark does not bother Maul. He has been kept in worse, long before experience had taught him he will survive anything and escape, kept in more pain and for far longer. It’s comforting, almost, that there is no light in here at all but the odd glimmer of firelight or the blinking of a cockpit console. It’s familiar. He would be far less at ease in a brightly lit hall. _(He thrives in the shadows. The trap must not be meant for Maul.)_

Neither does he mind the bloodshed. _(The movement is a dance, and the pain a tether. He is Maul. He is violence, was made for it, and this trap is amateur.)_

Even the visage that was chosen for him to kill, he could live with for a while longer. _(It’s nothing, he decides. He could keep on killing it. When he leaves, he might even carry with him a keepsake skull. It hurts, of course, as traps do, but forgetting Savage’s face for the first time was worse.)_

No. Whoever devised this trap has failed. They could scarcely have constructed a more comfortable environment for Maul. He could live in it forever, or at least until he dies of thirst.

What’s maddening is the knowledge that there is an outside he cannot reach, and how directionless it all is in here. No goal to move towards that he can see. He has killed the image of Savage twelve times now, fast and brutally and drawn-out, and nothing has changed. He has studied the shadowed blank walls and found no gaps. He has felt the floor, metal and mosses alternating haphazardly. There is no grand plan. There are no defined parameters of success, unreachable though they might be—as painful as Master’s tests were, He had always wanted Maul to do _something_ —and he is just treading water.

He’s just waiting, with his back to a wall and his head buried against a corpse’s chest. The life inside this trap stretches on, motionless, forever.

“It doesn’t have to be like that.”

Maul glances up, and looks straight into Savage’s tender eyes.

*

He does not move, when Maul is done with him. The nose is caved into his skull, dripping snot and slime and sap. He has lost his left canine, broken off, and several deep-ridged horns and the right eye. His right forearm dangles uselessly off a spindling pale unbroken strand of sinew. His neck is still twisted one-eighty degrees from the last fight, and he never stood a chance, not when he’s unable to even look down at what’s left of his hands. He couldn’t have won, despite Maul’s growing exhaustion, Maul’s shock, Maul’s mindless instinctive reaction. He couldn’t have won even twenty years ago— _didn’t, the one time he tried_ —not against someone who knew him so well and taught him half his movements, not against someone he _loved_. He can’t move. He should be dead.

He is. For twenty years, he has been dead.

He will not stop talking.

“I tried to make this comfortable for you,” he slurs, the syllables ill-fitting in Savage’s mouth. The room is familiar now, no longer deep and blank and black but the _Scimitar_ ’s long-gone cockpit when she is not being flown, all systems idling with a mellow dark light. It’s the _Nightbrother_ ’s engine room too, somehow, although those spaceships did not look remotely the same, and neither room is spacious enough for both Maul and Savage to sit on the floor, side-by-side, an arm’s length apart as they do now. “I am not here to hurt you. To fight,” Savage says. “Unless that is what you truly wish. But you don’t know what you want, do you?”

The trap does not seem to react to violence. Maul attempts a different gambit. “Do you know the way out?”

“You would leave me, brother?” Savage is closer now. _He’s dead_. He’s curled around Maul, both arms wrapped loosely enough that Maul could shrug him off, if he could remember how he got entangled in the first place. His voice rumbles low against Maul’s neck. It loosens the ache deep in his bones. Savage’s head is no longer twisted backwards. “What is out there that you seek? What else do you want?”

 _Everything_ , Maul wants to say. Maybe he did, though he can’t recall opening his mouth. The weapon. He came here to find a weapon of inescapable power, he remembers that much. He wants the weapon. He wants to fight. He wants to destroy the Sith. The Jedi. Lord Sidious, ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal, cackling in his towers as he weaves his delicate plans that never required Maul, neck ripe for a ‘saber blade. Kenobi, still believing he is hidden away.

Maul wants death. Power. Disruption. Vengeance.

“And then?”

“I will have avenged you, brother.” Even after he’d lost the contours of Savage’s face, Maul had still remembered that final battle on Mandalore. The terror. The shock. He had been so angry about being cast aside by the Sith, by his only purpose, by his Master, but only years later he’d noticed he’d made his lack of importance the basis of his new life. Back then, he’d imagined his future, free and undetermined, stretching out forever. He had seen himself Mand’alor, conquering his small corner of the galaxy, losing it again, searching a new battle: powerful locally but irrelevant in the grand scheme of the Sith. He’d seen himself teaching his apprentice, but not as another link in eons of lineage. He’d seen himself softening, learning the ways of his brother. He’d wanted that life. Maul had never known that they would have just months. He’d been reckless. He hadn’t expected his Master to come _._ “I will have avenged us.”

“And after?”

“They will be dead.”

“And then?”

 _And then,_ as if the answer was still unsatisfactory. _And then,_ fishing for what he’s already decided he wants to hear. Maul’s played this game before, usually when dumbly whimpering down on the floor, trying to guess at the words that will satisfy his Master. _And then._ What else is there? What does Savage want? How dare—? But time and quiet and regret and the hand scratching his horns have mellowed Maul: he wouldn’t have tolerated this impertinent questioning, before, but he doesn’t want to get up. The trap doesn’t respond to violence, anyway.

“What else will you do out there?”

There is warm ridged skin against Maul’s chest, and a slow echo of heartbeat, out of synch. He can’t remember the last time he touched his brother like this. Touched anyone. The attempt at reminiscence is a foolish impulse: he may want to recall something different, but the past is what it is. He’d touched Savage’s shoulder—once—held his hand—thrice—pushed him down, leant on him, but each repeat of beating him to death inside this shadow-cave is more skin contact than they’d ever had, back then. The embrace is almost inconceivable. Maul had once believed he’d have years to work up to this point. It’s less awkward than he imagined. It’s warm.

It’s not real.

He’s dead.

“Will it make you happy?”

Savage’s tone is growing impatient, snappish. Maul’s belly twinges at the seam where it once met— _where it still meets, the legs are_ gone—the numb durasteel. There are no coincidences here. This thing that is turning itself into Maul’s brother is losing its edge.

“It’s a fair question. After all, you’ve dedicated your life to it. The least you should know is what you’ll get out of vengeance in the end. Only ‘dedicated’ isn’t the right word, is it? You’ve never made a choice, after all, in your entire life.”

Maul’s metal knees should never have ached, he realizes as soon as the pain stops.

“You know what I think?” the something asks with Savage’s mouth. “You were set on this path before you could choose, and you have never strayed because you’re scared. You are a ship built without a steering wheel by an evil man, pushed, beset by inertia, and you will go on and on and on until you run out of propulsion or collide with a star.”

The warmth is all but gone now. Maul runs his fingers along the arms that encase him—one, two, three, four—surreptitiously checking for weakness.

“It doesn’t have to be like that. Inertia is not a motivation. You can stop.”

“And then?”

“You can have anything you want. You just need to imagine it. You can have your ship—” the _Scimitar_ around them is in full flight now, Maul at her helm, swooping between the skyscrapers of old Coruscant— “you can have your freedom—” the planet falls away, turns into Mandalore— “and you can have your body—” Maul’s knees have stopped aching, but they still look like flesh— “and you can have your brother, at your back, the way he should have been.” Maul quickly slides off _Scimitar’s_ driver’s seat and turns around. He would rather not have the imitation of Savage hide in his blind spot.

To have the solid steering console guard his back, he walks slowly backwards. After ten steps, he stops. He still hasn’t hit it. Out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Mandalore beyond the windshield, passing merrily by.

“You’ve been trying to kill me,” Maul says. If he looked down, he likely would not see his lightsaber, not with the epigone’s skill at sensory manipulation, but when he concentrates, he can feel its familiar heft at his right hip. He pulls it free.

“I didn’t intend to fight you. I was your brother. I appeared as the first kind face you met. I came as a friend, offering food and passage on a trash-filled hell. I approached as your apprentice. I didn’t expect you to lash out at me. You didn’t, back in your memory.”

He might have. On Lotho Minor, Maul had suffered and scarfed down mold and mushrooms and motor oil and talked to himself and hallucinated so much he honestly hadn’t believed that Savage was real. The ship, the food, the care, the drastic change of scenery—it had all seemed a dream, or a reward in death. It had taken a long time to trust. If he’d first been confronted by Savage while in a slightly better condition…

“I know that now,” Savage’s mouth says. “That’s why I decided to talk to you.”

“And reveal that you are not my brother.”

The mimic shrugs. It doesn’t appear angry that its ruse has failed. “You already nearly forgot that once before,” it rumbles, and offers Savage’s right hand.

“What do you want in return?”

“I’m lonely. I have been here, guarding, for millennia.”

“The weapon? What can you tell me about it?”

“Why do you need the weapon?” The thing wearing Savage’s face holds up its hands. “Don’t start talking about vengeance. I know it will give you nothing in the end. Even if you succeed, if Kenobi and Sidious and the galaxy burn at your feet, you will have gained nothing. You’ll only know that your straight path has run out, the path you were set on by the Master you despise. Give it up. Abandon it. Cast off your Master’s shackles.”

“What else is there?”

“Be happy,” it says. “You don’t want power, not truly, but you would have it here. You could have whatever you want. You will never be alone.”

“This place an illusion,” Maul objects. “I need to eat, to drink. I would die here, and accomplish nothing at all.”

“A day here can fit an eon of life, if I wish it. How many years do you think you have out there? Would it be so bad?” it whispers. “To stay here, with me, and wither. There is nothing left for you in the galaxy, just an empty lonely life.”

Maul takes a step forward, right hand tensed behind his back, and another, until he is still beyond Savage’s reach, but apparently within the creature’s. He feels arms slowly creep around him. “I thought you were trying to hurt me,” he says. There is no real reason to talk more. Maul has already made the choice for his path. But he has also not touched or talked to anyone for a long time, and he would keep the attention of his audience for a little while longer. “I thought your intent was making me kill my brother.”

“No!”

“It was a bad trap, because killing Savage was never my nightmare. It should have been, perhaps. I should have been afraid. I didn’t think he would die. I caught my Master’s attention. I was reckless, and he died.”

“Savage did not blame you. I have seen your memories. I have become him. He didn’t.”

“Not for that.” Maul moves his thumb over the ignition button. “He wouldn’t blame me for his death. He wasn’t afraid of that. He didn’t want me to die either, but what he most feared was this: to be used as the weapon that kills me.”

The epigone screams when it is bisected by Maul’s lightsaber. Violence does apparently work on the trap, as long as it’s the right kind, with the right intent. “Savage couldn’t bear it, if I stayed here and died. You used the wrong face.”

“Wait!” The coulisse of the _Scimitar_ cockpit falls away. In a familiar forest clearing, a mutilated neti is waving their many broken branch-limbs frantically. “Wait! You came for a weapon? There is no weapon here. There is no power, not anymore. It was stolen, a long time ago. There is only me. You want power. You’ve witnessed my skill. Take me with you and I will kill your enemies. Kill me, and you’ll have nothing at all!”

“Too late.”

*

The _Nightbrother_ is exactly where Maul left her, on the other side of the ancient forest. The neti is dead. _Nightbrother_ does not flicker into another ship or expand. Still, Maul stays outside her while he plans his next step, curling up under the glaring blue sky. There are probably many other Sith weapons out there, more power to gain. Lord Sidious is still ensconced in the center of his Empire of betrayal. Kenobi is still hiding on Tatooine. Maul’s path stretches on, straight ahead, forever. He will follow it until he runs out of fuel or meets a star.

He has nothing but time.

**Author's Note:**

> Maul meets a neti who can read his mind and manipulate his perceptions. The neti uses this to appear with Savage's visage and try to talk Maul into staying in the neti's illusion, dying of thirst within days, because the neti claims he has nothing in his life worth living for anyway. Maul 'kills' the neti wearing Savage's face several times, at first because the neti's knowledge isn't great enough yet to look recognizably like Savage, and then because Maul is sure he is an impersonator.  
> _____________
> 
> I haven't felt up to writing or talking or even reading anything in a while because of a depressive episode, which might be slightly obvious from the depressing stuff I very slowly worked on, haha
> 
> This takes place a short while before Twin Suns, so it's mostly in line with my impression of Maul's mental state there. Title's from the [Philip Larkin poem Myxomatosis](https://allpoetry.com/Myxomatosis), and I wrote the first scene--five months ago--as a loose interpretation of the genprompt_bingo prompt "doll"
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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